


Asphodel Fields

by orangescribbles



Series: The Taste of Red Upon Your Lips [2]
Category: Servamp (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Hades and Persephone AU, M/M, Prequel to Like Wine and the Sea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 22:17:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8941546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangescribbles/pseuds/orangescribbles
Summary: Days with Mahiru are not at all like the cool barrenness of the Underworld.





	

**Author's Note:**

> another instalment of my favourite Hades and Persephone AU in the form of drabbles huehue ٩( ᐛ )و //save me (also took some liberties with the way particular gods are depicted in Greek mythology AHAHA) pls talk to me about these two

The gods assume that Kuro's stolen Mahiru from above, taken him by the curve of his wrist and whisked him away. Whispers travel in and out of the Underworld from the loose lips of the dead and dying, of how a creature like Kuro only knew how to envy and lust for life. Of how he wants nothing more than to let death seep into the lands and have the soil rot away. Death is only capable of thievery after all and it seems, Kuro thinks, that it is inconceivable to them that there would be anyone so willing to set foot in the realm of the dead. Kuro himself agrees with them, unable to reconcile having life spring in the corners of his dwelling by its own volition.

Yet Mahiru remains with Kuro, smiling and laughing as if his place is among them.

 

* * *

 

He asks, one day, why it is Mahiru chooses to remain, why he allowed himself to be pulled into the Underworld and, as the spring god is known to do, Mahiru replies simply, "You seemed lonely."

The reply results in a tired sigh and Kuro stalking away. Being lonely is a concept that Kuro is unfamiliar with.

Likely because he isn't privy to the sentiment of wanting to take part in the merriment of the other gods.

 

* * *

 

Mahiru looks entirely out of place in the dreary setting of the Underworld. His colours are warm and alive like a sunrise over a field of blossoms, contrasting starkly against the muted tones of Kuro’s realm.

When he speaks, his voice reverberates around the hall and fills even the cracks with his joy. It’s rattling to witness when Kuro’s only been well acquainted to dreary murmurs in his kingdom.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a shift that comes over the Underworld in the time that Mahiru continues to stay. Pleasant laughter echoes beneath the woeful cries of the damned and encouraging whispers lurk in the corners of mournful spirits; Kuro thinks that perhaps among the dead is the spirit of a madman.

Deathless gods know nothing else beyond merrymaking in spite of such misery, after all.

 

* * *

 

When he interacts with Mahiru, Kuro wonders if Hypnos’s taken to playing tricks on him. There’s an openness in Mahiru’s words and an enthusiasm in the manner he treats Kuro. It makes Kuro listen attentively to Mahiru, despite the callous front he puts up, and commit the words to memory.

 

* * *

 

“Tell me about that place,” Kuro asks of Mahiru without preamble.

Mahiru’s eyes light up and he immediately begins to recount stories of his earlier decades with uncontained joy. He paints endless pastures and colourful fields and fresh gardens with such warmth in his voice that makes Kuro almost sad.

Perhaps one day, Mahiru will speak of the Underworld with enough fondness and affection in his tones.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes a malignant spirit strays from its place and directly into Kuro’s throne room. It carries with it the contempt it’s built up over the lifetime spent in the realm of the dead. The taunting cries reflect the judgement passed on to it from the gates.

“A spring god! A spring god! So full of life while you, Lord Hades, are full of death!” it cries childishly, tilting its head and giggling loudly even when Kuro eyes it with weariness. “But oh! Only the dead can survive here!”

Kuro says nothing and remains unmoved from his throne.

“Why do you keep a spring god here? Oh! I know! He makes you happy doesn’t he? Makes you feel alive? While you live, he will wither away! How terrible of you! Ah, but Lord Hades,” it totters closer to him and its giggles morph into taunting snickers, “that’s in your nature, right?”

The spirit continues to snicker, almost doubling over, when Kuro waves his hand and banishes it away. With a longsuffering countenance, Kuro considers how the Underworld is a court of judgment.

It is terrible as it is just in its verdicts.

 

* * *

 

There was a time, centuries ago, when Sleepy Ash roamed the earth with the dead at his beck and call, and Death at the tips of his fingers. Petty squabbles and disputes for the dominion over all things divided the gods, and mortal men were made to wage war in the names of their immortal lords. It empowered the gods, brought them glory and power but Sleepy Ash had no need for such things.

Death favoured none and neither had Sleepy Ash as he tucked each fallen mortal into his domain and had them bathe in his rivers. Some called to him, crying out that their fallen enemies were offerings, hoping to be spared from his clutches. It neither moved nor inspired Sleepy Ash and he continued to collect souls, continued to take them away.

Even now Death favours none and soon, Kuro thinks, it will come to collect from him as well in some way. That, he is sure of.

 

* * *

 

There are days that Kuro spends watching the spring god, noting how lightly he steps and how he whispers ever so kindly to the soil. It’s difficult, almost painful, seeing Mahiru endeavour to breathe new life into a realm where its very antithesis lingers in every crevice. He tries too hard and spends too much time in undertaking an impossible burden that it seems nearly pitiable. It only exhausts Kuro to watch.

“Don’t be so troublesome, Mahiru,” Kuro tells him and crouches beside Mahiru. “Only the dead can survive here.”

When Mahiru gives him a disapproving frown as he wipes his hands of the dirt, Kuro knows that Mahiru will continue to take pains to prove him otherwise. Certain aspects of a spring god are rooted in struggle and aspirations, after all.

 

* * *

 

Hyde comes to visit sometime after the midsummer, bringing with him all the noises from the world above.

“They want him back, brother,” Hyde says. “His uncle’s pretty angry.”

“I’m not keeping him here.” Kuro sighs tiredly and slouches against his ebony throne. “He can leave whenever he wants.”

The sceptical look Hyde gives him makes Kuro look away to the side, coincidentally to where Mahiru’s speaking amiably with Charon. Later, Kuro thinks, he will speak with the ferryman.

 

* * *

 

Mahiru stares at the ceiling with unconcealed curiosity, squinting at how it trembles under the thundering tread of the dead.

“Seems heavier this time,” he notes with furrowed brows as he looks to Kuro.

For his part, Kuro offers him no answers and Mahiru asks for none, giving only fleeting glances every now and then.

 

* * *

 

“It’s kind of sad,” Mahiru says one day, eying the bare earth in the middle of the fields by the river. His hands are dirtied once more from another attempt at creating a life. “Because we’re immortal, I forget that not everything lasts.”

His voice is soft and wistful, and Kuro is reminded of his siblings, of how they are entirely ignorant of the suffering mortals whose very existence is meant for death. Mahiru was once similar to them, ignorant and far removed from the pains of mortality, but now there is a tint of sorrow to him.

“Nothing lasts,” Kuro corrects in a sullen murmur.

In this, Kuro thinks, Mahiru is no longer as deathless as the gods above.

 

* * *

 

When Mahiru gives him smiles that stretch his cheeks and somehow manage to go beyond the physical planes of his face, Kuro wonders why the thundering sounds of the marching dead echo loudly in his head.

 

* * *

 

In the recent days, or what Kuro supposes pass as days, Mahiru’s taken to glancing at the ceiling with a disconcerted expression. He wonders if he should offer a sort of question, an inquiry as to what was troubling the spring god. It worries Kuro that perhaps Mahiru realises what’s happening in the realm above them and that he’d decide to leave, never to return.

But Kuro is tongue-tied most days, especially so in the most important of moments, and he admits he is a coward.

 

* * *

 

Kuro’s inspecting a delicate little fruit in his hands when another brother of his, Hugh, comes to him. Unlike with Hyde, Hugh arrives with little of the flair and stentorian proclamations of the upper world. Rather, he weaves in carefully through the throng of souls being ushered from the shores and draws little attention to himself.

“The gods are angry,” Hugh tells him.

“Mm,” Kuro hums noncommittally and continues to turn the fruit in his hands, skimming his fingers over its smooth skin.

“You can’t keep him here forever,” Hugh says gently.

“I’m not.”

He slowly digs his fingers into the flesh of the fruit, drawing bits of its juice, and wonders if Mahiru would indulge in such things, in the sourness of the Underworld and continued company of its doleful ruler.

 

* * *

 

Lately, Mahiru’s taken on a pallid sort of complexion that’s more fitting on the marble statues in the temples of Kuro’s siblings. Its pallor is almost comparable to the spectres that hover over Kuro’s shoulders and wail in the distance. Yet somehow, Mahiru looks to be just as lively as he had the day he’d fallen into the Underworld despite being capable of mingling easily with the wandering spirits of the realm. Perhaps, Kuro considers, it is merely the character of a spring god to remain bright even in such sombreness.

“I feel sort of cold, Kuro,” Mahiru says in contemplation and crosses his arms.

“What’d you expect?” Kuro replies tiredly, slouching further. “You’re in the Underworld.”

“I guess so.” Mahiru purses his lips before shaking his head. “I didn’t feel like this before, though.”

There’s a refute on his tongue about how the Underworld is everything Mahiru’s world is not before realising that perhaps Mahiru is referring to the day he’d fallen. Kuro wonders how much time has passed in the realm above since then. Distantly, he registers the pointedness of Mahiru’s collarbones before shrugging and walking away.

 

* * *

 

Mahiru catches Kuro fiddling with a fruit of the Underworld and watches him with curious eyes. The paleness of his skin has yet to ebb away and only seems to dull even further as time passes.

“Hey, maybe eating something’ll help me feel better?” Mahiru wonders aloud, nearing close enough to stand by Kuro.

It’s tempting, to give the fruit of the dead to Mahiru, but Kuro cannot the bear the weight of the consequences. The thought of it makes his shoulders sag and he thinks that at the very least, he will spare Mahiru this. Kuro looks to Mahiru, notes how disconcertingly open his countenance is and searches for minute shifts in the planes of his face.

After what Kuro deems to be a beat of a moment, he tosses the fruit into the rivers and sighs, “Don’t be an idiot, Mahiru.”

 

* * *

 

The shores of the Underworld only seem to welcome more of the dead and Kuro knows the very reason why his kingdom continues to flourish under such irony. Resentful muttering of the restless spirits confirm his suspicions.

“What could be happening there?” Mahiru mutters worriedly, wholly unaware of the impact his absence has on the land of the living.

Mahiru does not ask, does not push, and Kuro will keep his lips pressed tightly together. He is the master and keeper of Death, unlike the creature of life that Mahiru is, Kuro will continue to take from even the unwilling. In turn, Thanatos will at long last take from him as well.

 

* * *

 

There are spots in Kuro’s realm that pulsate with foreign warmth; it attracts weaker souls and makes them crowd around it. A sort of dreary cheerfulness roots itself in the weeping spirits as they revel in the fading warmth underneath the rotted soil of the Underworld. Kuro does nothing, says nothing, and merely watches how the cheer shifts into sorrowful longing. The warmth spots fade quickly, this Kuro knows and surely the spirits will as well. It follows the natural order of things, after all. That which are living and alive cannot subsist in the grimness of the Underworld.

However, Kuro refuses to consider the implications of what a prolonged stay in the Underworld will do to someone whose very being is the exact opposite of death, and decay, and rot.

 

* * *

 

Touches shared between Kuro and Mahiru are often initiated by accident, but Kuro remembers them easily. It not quite sears his chilled skin but there’s a lingering warmth from Mahiru’s fingertips that nearly feels pleasant. Perhaps if the barrenness of his kingdom was not so easily reflected in him, Kuro might have felt pinpricks of life taking root in him.

But this is that, and there is an innate desire in each inhabitant of the Underworld for the very thing they lack. It won’t be long until the remnants of sunlight will have finally faded from Mahiru’s touch.

 

* * *

 

When Lily comes, Kuro is watching Mahiru stare at his hands in frustration after yet another endeavour to weave life into the soil of the Underworld. His brother settles quietly beside him, watches the same scene and Kuro dares hope that Lily hasn’t come with reprimands from the gods.

It’s a vain hope, however.

“People are dying, brother,” Lily tells him; Kuro wonders if the gods are trying to appeal to his sense of familial duty by sending his brothers.

“It’s not a novel concept,” Kuro replies nonchalantly and levels Lily with deadpanned eyes.

“Tooru wants you to return Mahiru,” Lily tries again, “his anger is keeping anything from growing.”

“Mahiru can leave if he wants,” Kuro tells Lily, as wearily as he had with Hugh and Hyde, but he doubts that this brother would see any truth to Kuro’s words.

There’s no response. Kuro thinks that Lily’s left but there’s faint rustling and a soft sigh that indicate otherwise. “Mahiru is meant to be under the sun, Kuro.”

Kuro has nothing to say but it’s of little consequence, his brother’s bid him farewell and left no other parting words beyond a reminder of the inevitable.

 

* * *

 

Kuro watches Mahiru step lightly into the barren fields of the Underworld, the sight of him doing so becoming a routine. There’s the usual determination set into every angle of Mahiru’s face but today, there are undertones of resignation in the corners of his lips. Each movement is slower, more reluctant and Kuro considers its significance.

Perhaps Mahiru is at last learning of the true nature of the Underworld, of the kingdom and ruler he’s yet to leave. Perhaps he is finally acknowledging that the world of the dead can only take that which gives, lapping at it greedily and forcefully. Perhaps he is at long last catching on to the ways of the undead and all its rotted traits.

Perhaps he is ultimately tiring of Kuro and the whispers of death that come from his lips.

“You should stop doing this.” Kuro draws closer to Mahiru who’s stopped his dance-like movements to regard him. “I told you before-”

“Only the dead can survive here, yeah.” Mahiru rolls his eyes and props a hand on his hip, staring at Kuro unimpressed. “You never know though, and besides, you and I are here right?”

Kuro sees that he is wrong here and curses; Mahiru is not learning.

“You’re an idiot,” Kuro grumbles, drained, and matches Mahiru’s frown.

Mahiru is weakening.

 

* * *

 

When yet another malicious spirit totters up to him, Kuro supposes that this is his own judgment from the courts of the Underworld. For all the sins that crawl on his back, he knows that it is fitting to have them carved into his memory, never to forget the consequence of his very existence.

“Lord Hades!” it giggles at him. “Lord Hades! The spring god is still here!”

The giggles bounce off the walls and Kuro compares how hollowly it echoes to the manner Mahiru’s laughter manages to fill the spaces of the Underworld. It lacks in vitality and warmth in the way that Mahiru brims with it, but it is the way of Kuro’s subjects. They only know to mourn and envy in their hollowed out existence.

“Why haven’t you killed him yet, my lord? Is it because you are fond of him? Won’t don’t you let him go then?” the spirit looks up to him, its empty eye sockets watching him intently before it bursts into more laughter. “Oh but how silly of me! My lord is a selfish lord!”

Kuro sighs and lets the spirit’s taunting wash over him. This, Kuro thinks, is something he knows intimately and reminds himself of whenever he’s in the company of Mahiru who is naive and bright and kind and loud and loved. Looking at his hand, opening and closing it as if in practice, he wonders if he’d have the capacity to surrender to the whims of the spring god when the time comes for him to at last leave the Underworld.

“You are very cruel, my lord,” the spirit says honestly; Kuro’s nearly forgotten its presence.

It speaks the truth; Kuro cannot be anything else after having shown Mahiru the world beyond the land of sweetened wine and honey.

 

* * *

 

It’s surprising how, when Kuro closes his eyes in contemplation, he can’t seem to fathom the Underworld empty of Mahiru’s smile and laughter, of a world that is without earnest desire to create something other than tormented sighs. Even at the back of his eyes Kuro can only see Mahiru peering at him curiously at corners and from the fields he frequents each day rather than empty, barren, spaces. But as the lord of the dead is in habit of, he refrains from putting any more effort into troublesome endeavours.

He tried once, after becoming accustomed to cheery greetings, and he finds himself overwhelmed by a feeling he can’t put a name to.

Walking up to the spot on the field that he’s associated with Mahiru, he bends down to palm the mound of earth that Mahiru whispers tenderly to. It holds faint traces of Mahiru’s essence underneath and Kuro wonders if it will disappear one day before perishing the thought.

The answer is obvious; it’s foolish of him to ponder on such things.

 

* * *

 

The dead pass the gate of the Underworld in neatened intervals so as not to give the spirits a chance to escape and run amok on the world above. It’s never a joyous occasion for either world but Kuro knows it’s the way of things. Still, he does not mourn for them.

Predictably, Mahiru does not share Kuro’s sentiments. When the gates open, and after the dead have crossed the shores, Mahiru bows his head in solemnity with eyes shut in contemplation. Sometimes he will frown and other times he will furrow his brows, but Kuro knows he will always mourn the loss of life, the triumph of death.

“You regret falling?” Kuro asks quietly, his curiosity burning the pit of his stomach.

Oddly, Mahiru’s reply doesn’t come in words but a shift in his expression at the corners of his mouth and brows before he sighs and bows his head.

Of course, Kuro thinks, it should have been obvious. As virtuous as Mahiru is, even he cannot stand the dreariness of death and all its abhorrent aspects.

His lamentations indicate how much happier Mahiru was on the world above, where death is hidden behind the doors of festivity. A sobriety long since embedded into his eyes makes Kuro’s chest heavy and tight as though a Ker sought to crush his lungs.

Kuro does not begrudge Mahiru, but he does settle into melancholy.

 

* * *

 

The gods have become impatient, Kuro notes when Jeje’s no nonsense voice cuts through the silence of the halls. Even with a bag to over his face, Kuro can tell how disapproval and irritation settle over his brother’s face.

“Mahiru will only wither away here,” Jeje tells him flatly.

“I know,” Kuro intones.

“He isn’t of this world,” Jeje continues and perhaps the futility in his voice is a sign that the gods have become desperate enough to almost beg Kuro to comply with their demands.

“I know.”

“He isn’t yours to keep,” Jeje sighs in exasperation before scowling and turning around to leave; Kuro’s brother was never known for his patience.

“I,” Kuro grips at the armrest of his throne, his voice wavering, “I know.”

 

* * *

 

Some days later, Mahiru collapses. His already paled skin fades further into sickly hues, and when Kuro gathers the spring god into his arms, he’s taken aback by the coolness of it.

“Kuro?” Mahiru croaks out weakly, looking at him with half-lidded eyes.

“You’ll be fine,” Kuro murmurs as he rushes through the halls, keeping his eyes on Mahiru and takes in every detail of the frail god in his arms. “You’ll be fine as soon as you go back to the surface.”

“But--” Mahiru attempts to refute, and while it still amazes Kuro, he wishes that Mahiru would simply leave things be.

“Don’t be troublesome, Mahiru.” Kuro cuts him off and continues to make his way to his chambers. There’s the sound of thudding and drumming in his ears, he thinks it comes from the grounds being trodden upon by the dead but it follows him even into the quietness of his chambers. Before he can ruminate over it, the shiver that wracks Mahiru’s body snaps him back to attention and he pauses mid-step. In the faint light, he sees how weakened Mahiru is by the sheen of sweat that’s accumulated on his forehead. Shifting slightly, Kuro can feel the boniness of Mahiru’s body in his arms and he knows that he must not submit to his nature as the lord of the dead.

Instead, he tightens his hold on Mahiru for the few short moments he allows himself before gently laying the spring god on his bed. It will do, it will be enough.

 

* * *

 

A creature of darkness like Kuro has no knowledge of the kind of sickness that plagues Mahiru. All he is privy to is that it comes from a lack of light, of life and warmth. Unsure of how to go about aiding Mahiru without troubling him any further, Kuro sends a request to Helios and later on Apollo for a small ball spun from the light of the sun. He assures them that Mahiru will return but only if they heed his request, which they do. With foreign light in the palm of one hand and the blood-sprung fruit in the other, Kuro settles by Mahiru’s side.

“You’ll have to make do with this for now,” Kuro says and sets the light source down. “It should last long enough for you to feel better.”

Mahiru purses his lips and eyes the fruit in Kuro’s hand thoughtfully before offering a smile, “Thank you, Kuro.”

Kuro does not trust his words and merely nods, tucking away the fruit into his robes. The thrumming and beating in his ears is louder and Kuro has yet to discover the source of it.

 

* * *

 

Slowly, colour returns to Mahiru’s skin and washes away the coldness of the Underworld from him. The spring in his step returns, the surety in his movements becoming more apparent as the gift of Apollo and Helios begins to seep into Mahiru’s touch. It makes Mahiru more fascinating to watch as those that wither in the confines of the Underworld only know how to rot further. Yet here Mahiru is, blossoming even in the darkest corners of the world; truly, he is the god of spring.

“Is something the matter, Kuro?” Mahiru asks and Kuro realises that he’s been staring far too openly but his wistfulness throws away his embarrassment. The sound of the dead marching continues in his head, echoing louder and louder with each step he takes towards Mahiru. He drinks in the sight of the god whose existence is the polar opposite of his own, memorising the curve of his cheeks, the dip of his collarbones and the flush of his skin.

“Kuro?” Mahiru says softly when Kuro stands closely to him. Rather than reply, Kuro tentatively cups Mahiru’s cheeks and bends down to press their lips together in an impulsive desire to convey his longing for something other than a hollowness in his chest. The warmth that spills from Mahiru’s lips to his own turns the thundering in his ears almost deafening. When Mahiru slides his hands around Kuro’s nape to pull him closer, Kuro thinks his chest will burst.

He then realises what the sounds of marching in his head and the hammering sensations in his chest mean. Perhaps it’s a sign that Kuro is in fact capable of- of- of--

 

* * *

 

Words of affection lie on Kuro’s lips when the day looms over them but he remains tongue-tied. He instead opts to kiss Mahiru, revel in the sweetness of his kiss and warmth of his lips, before they must part. At one point, he thinks he sees Mahiru eye the fruit Kuro’s taken to carrying around with him and he almost offers it. Almost, because Kuro cannot do that to Mahiru.

As much as Kuro wishes it, he cannot because Mahiru does not belong in Kuro’s world just as Kuro does not belong in Mahiru’s. Mahiru is too beautiful for a world of rot and he is too abhorrent for such a wonderful realm.

 

* * *

 

On the day of parting, Kuro finds that the fruit has been split open and its seeds taken.

**Author's Note:**

> Mentioned figures:  
> Hypnos - God of Sleep, brother of Thanatos and resides in the Underworld/Hades  
> Thanatos - God of Peaceful Death, brother of Hypnos and resides in the Underworld/Hades  
> Ker - Female death spirit, embodies violent death
> 
> Happy holidays, by the way!! o w o)/

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [from my lethal blow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14709177) by [NikeScaret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikeScaret/pseuds/NikeScaret)




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